Separate selves
entwined in entropy
glassware on the edge of the table
photographs turned backward
light shines through inverting
memories of lost cities
dreaming spires reaching toward God
In the morning we rise, shower, comb our hair
follow the routine like stations of the cross
and guide ourselves into tombs
hoping for a miracle to cast these stones aside

Silence in between spaces
separate minds adrift
thieves hiding in forests
of endless night
the last flicker like fireflies
and tireless symphonies
staccato and certain of nothing
except for the next note
and the next
gunpowder sweet and
mail order religion
lost and found and lost again
sins passed from father to son
familiar as secondhand shoes
comfortable as dry socks
after a rainy day
an evening by the fire
still smoldering still the next day
we sleep past noon
the sun refuses to wait for us